


Precipice

by MargaretKire



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Jealous Arthur, Lots of Obliviousness, M/M, Oblivious Arthur, Oblivious Eames, Pining, Sharing a Bed, You can pry that trope out of my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-27 20:29:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17773724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MargaretKire/pseuds/MargaretKire
Summary: Eames just wants to get through this last, grueling, extraction job so that he can finally talk to Arthur about his perfect plan for the future. Which will ideally involve him and Arthur. Very intimately.Meanwhile, Arthur seems to be using every excuse to drag this horrible job out as long as possible.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swtalmnd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swtalmnd/gifts).



> My prompt was "productive procrastination."

Eames pressed his lips together, willing himself to remain calm. Arthur, bless his neurotic soul, could be painfully thorough and unnecessarily dull, but this was extreme even for him.

 

“You’re not ready Eames, do it again,” Arthur declared, his dream hands shoved into his dream pockets, looking every inch the hardass he was out in the real world. “And this time, walk with a _slight_ limp, not like a pirate with a peg leg.”

 

“Of course, angel, anything you say,” Eames grit out, jaw clenched. They’d been at this for hours in the dream realm. It didn’t matter to Eames that it was mere minutes in the waking world. This was his very own Hell, and Arthur was his personal demon, complete with natty little vest.

 

“You don’t look remotely like him when you make that face. Do you need to study the surveillance video some more?”

 

“Arthur,” Eames said, his voice going high like it did when he was barely keeping it together, “I have the video footage memorized, though thank you for your very kind offer.”

 

“I think you should watch it again.”

 

Eames impersonation of the target’s brother was flawless. Arthur had to see that; had to realize that all of this was a waste of time. They were ready to do the job. They’d been ready for nearly a week. And yet, Arthur kept putting him through his paces, never satisfied.

 

Arthur had even lost the irritated furrows in his forehead, though he was doing his best to scowl: a sure sign that he was as exhausted as Eames, and likely just as hungry. It had been after dinner time in the waking world, and Eames could feel the very real protests of his stomach even in the dreamscape. They stared at one another, tired and stubborn.

 

“I’ll watch the surveillance with you,” Arthur said. It wasn’t a request.

 

“I’ll bring the popcorn, shall I, luv?”

 

* * *

 

“The interior is too small,” Arthur said, squinting down at Cindy’s intricate model of the target’s country house. “I want an emergency escape route. Something that the target and his projections won’t know about. A sliding bookcase into a nonexistent room, perhaps.”

 

“I mean, I could do that,” Cindy said with the air of someone about to snap and break the whole model over Arthur’s elegant head. Ariadne had clearly not prepared her replacement architect for Arthur's overwhelming personality. And by overwhelming personality, Eames meant his tendency towards theatrical displays of obsessive compulsive disorder. “Though it would take another day and a half, at the very least,” Cindy warned, smoothing her flawless black braids behind one mahogany ear and glaring at their point man.

 

Arthur just nodded his dark head once. “That’s fine, just make sure it’s seamless.”

 

“Of course,” Cindy grit out through clenched teeth. Eames intervened on the poor woman’s behalf, pulling Arthur away for lunch.

 

* * *

 

Arthur was on the phone with Dom, pacing around the drab rental apartment. Eames and Cindy sat on the couch, pretending to be working and not eavesdropping. After five minutes, Cindy discreetly pulled out a small flask and tipped whiskey into both their mugs, meeting Eames eyes in commiseration.

 

“Absolutely not,” Arthur said, turning at the window and starting back for a loop around the coffee table. Eames moved his legs out of the way at the last moment. Arthur listened a few more seconds, Dom’s voice barely audible, high and tinny. “Because I need to see it in person first,” Arthur continued, gesturing with his free hand. “The blueprints aren’t enough and the aerial photos of the house are a decade old… No, it’s really not-”

 

Arthur stood still near the kitchen doorway, raising his long-fingered hand to his face and gripping between his eyes, jaw tight. Eames took a deep drag of spiked coffee and held out his cup to Cindy, who gave him another pour from the flask.

 

“No, no, no, you don’t need to drive out here yet… Why? Because we’re not ready for you. I need another week at least-” Arthur started pacing again.

 

It was Eames’ fault. Well, that might have been a bit egotistical of him. Eames suspected that Arthur’s bad mood was at least _partially_ his fault.

 

Eames had grown tired of working Cobb’s way. Now that he was back on US soil with his kids, Dom was only taking North American jobs so that he could at least stay on the same continent as his children. Eames understood that completely. If it had only been the location of the jobs, he would have been fine with the new arrangements. However, it was the _type_ of jobs Cobb was taking: large, high-paying industrial espionage jobs that were fussy to set up and mind-numbingly boring.

 

Arthur was constantly stressed, taking on the brunt of each project, while Cobb worked remotely from home, only heading in for the actual heist. Which meant that Arthur had to run him through all the simulations while also trying to field Dom’s last minute changes. These past few months, Eames had been woken up more than once by them arguing late into the night, whisper-yelling at one another in the working space of whatever place they were staying in, over some impossible change Cobb wanted made to the plan or to the dreamscape.

 

And that was the other thing that was wearing Eames down: the accommodations. Dom had taken to renting apartments or small houses for the team to work out of, rather than individual hotel rooms with a separate working space. Over the past year, the team had stayed in all sorts of rentals, from the posh to the dingy, and everything in between.

 

It wasn’t the places themselves that were driving Eames to distraction.

 

No.

 

It was the sight of Arthur, sleep-mussed and stretching his arms over his head on the sofa before he’d gotten his cup of coffee for the day. It was Arthur, shuffling around the kitchen in over-sized slippers, his feet constantly too cold, buttering toast and muttering to himself about his upcoming research projects, sitting heavily in a kitchen chair and giving Eames a slow smile. It was Arthur, tired and worn out, forcing himself to stay awake another hour, slavishly working on one of Dom’s last minute changes. Arthur, awake in the middle of the night, fiddling with the designs, the plans, all the minutiae, collapsing in a heap into an armchair and passing out from exhaustion. Only to get up the following day and do it all over again.

 

In short, it was Arthur.

 

And Arthur hadn’t been doing well lately. The stress was finally taking a toll. The morning smiles grew less and less bright, while the dark smudges under his brown eyes grew deeper. He was taking caffeine pills to stay awake all night, working twice the hours of anyone else. All so that Dom could have an extra day at home with his kids.

 

And Eames understood. He really did.

 

To a point.

 

And that point was: Arthur, hands shaking, reading through a target’s legal file at three in the morning, a half-finished apple turning brown and forgotten by his elbow, pretending that he wasn’t starting to fall apart; that he wasn’t literally weeping from exhaustion.

 

So Eames came up with _The Plan._

 

It was simple. One last job for Dom, something high profile that paid well. He would get enough money saved up for a fresh start somewhere new. He would start working internationally again, taking smaller, more exciting jobs, ones that could be handled by a small team in under a week. Ideally, he would take two person jobs. Ideally, Arthur would be the second person. And, ideally, they would stop pretending that what they felt for one another was the polite amiability of colleagues. Because it had been a long time since Eames had only felt friendship for Arthur. If he were being honest, he hadn’t felt strictly professional feelings for Arthur since about five minutes after they met, when Arthur, younger - so pretty and untouchable - had corrected Eames’ pronunciation of the word ‘PASIV’ with a cocked eyebrow and a smirk.

 

Eames had yet to enlighten Arthur as to the existence of _The Plan._ He was waiting for this insufferable job to be over, so that he could wine and dine him in peace. Part of _The Plan_ was to show Arthur a little of what he’d been missing: good food, creature comforts, _rest._

 

Then, perhaps over a nice dinner, he would start throwing out the idea of them working together, independent from Cobb. To sweeten the deal, he’d already have something lined up, something interesting and important. Something that Arthur could sink his teeth into.

 

Even that would be enough: getting Arthur healthy and rested. Interested in his work again. Using his staggering talents for something he actually enjoyed doing. Though Eames longed for more. And sometimes, _sometimes,_ he thought that Arthur did too.

 

And then, a few days ago, he'd made _The Mistake._

 

Cobb had been on a video call with them at the time, the three of them huddled around the kitchen table, leaning into the laptop so they could see Dom’s face as they discussed the project. Dom had asked if they were all available to work on another job he was putting together for the following month, and Eames, seeing an opportunity to set _The Plan_ in motion, told Cobb that he was taking a break. Dom had nodded and asked if he would like to work on a job set for later that year, something that Cobb was getting in the works early. Eames said he’d think about it, but he’d said it in the way that meant he really wouldn’t.

 

The look in Arthur’s eyes when Eames had chanced a glance at him… Eames couldn’t describe it. Something had shown, sharp and wounded, on Arthur’s face for a fraction of a second, before it was gone, replaced by Arthur’s professional mask of inscrutability.

 

Ever since then, the smiles had stopped altogether. And the constant pushing had begun. Arthur hounded Eames to improve his impersonations, to improve his approach to the subject, to improve his tidying up habits, his wardrobe choices, his vocabulary- everything to do with Eames was open to scrutiny.

 

It wasn’t just Eames. It was everything about the job. Arthur was seeing problems where there weren’t any, demanding that small issues be resolved before they could move to the next stage. Small details that never bothered him before were suddenly insurmountable obstacles. It had gotten so bad, they were falling behind schedule, something that never happened when Arthur was point man.

 

The more Eames and Cindy tried to help get the team back on track, the more determined Arthur became to check, and double-check, everything that had already been completed. Just a little more research into the target’s ex-wife’s financial history… One more check on the medications the target took on a daily basis, then a cross check for what interactions the medications had with other drugs or with alcohol. Then ordering new sedatives and sleeping agents just in case the subject had too much to drink, or forgot his medication the morning of the job… and on and on.

 

Eames and Cindy took to meeting on the roof when Arthur finally collapsed in the evenings, drinking whiskey and smoking cigarettes like it was their new full-time job. They barely even talked, just stared out at the bleak cityscape and watched the medical helicopters land at the metropolitan hospital in the distance.

 

“He started leaving Post-It notes this morning,” Cindy said, dragging in a lungful of smoke and exhaling slowly, making the motion smooth and somehow elegant.

 

“Jesus fuck,” Eames declared, glass and bottle clinking as he endeavored to pour himself another whiskey while holding a lit cigarette. “Cheers," he said, holding the glass in salute to his companion, downing it before she could react.

 

“One note said, and I quote, ‘the secret room should have another secret room,’ and it was stuck to the side of my soy milk in the fridge.” Cindy met his eyes from the corners of hers, inhaling smoke furiously. “The _fridge,_ Eames.”

 

“Buggering hell.”

 

“My _soy milk,_ Eames.”

 

“Christ on a cracker.”

 

“You know what he needs?”

 

“What, luv? Please tell me, for I am a desperate man.”

 

The corners of Cindy’s lips turned up. “The man needs to get laid.”

 

Eames choked on his drink and then coughed like he was dying. Cindy waited for the noise level of his spluttering to die down before continuing.

 

“And he would definitely let you help him with that,” she said, smiling like a wolf that’s cornered a lamb.

 

Eames gaped. “Bloody hell, woman, I should be so lucky.” He wiped a hand over his face. “You didn’t hear me say that.”

 

“I did.”

 

“You didn’t. You also can’t possibly believe it’s true. He doesn’t think of me like that.”

 

“He does.”

 

“He doesn’t.”

 

“He really does.”

 

“Prove it,” Eames said, his head spinning with whiskey and thoughts of Arthur.

 

Cindy tapped away at her phone for a moment before handing it over, a video open on the screen. “Caught him watching that a few days ago when he thought he was alone in the apartment.”

 

“‘Tattooed muscle top submits to power bottom,’” Eames read aloud, his eyes riveted on the slim, dark-haired man in the video.

 

As if reading his mind, Cindy directed, “Look at the other guy and tell me if he seems familiar.”

 

Eames looked. Not his type, personally. Broad shoulders. Thick neck. The guy had several tattoos, more being revealed as the slim man in the video stripped him of his clothes. Short, light-brown hair. Full lips… Oh.

 

“Oh,” Eames said.

 

“Yeah,” Cindy agreed.

 

 _“Oh,_ ” Eames added for good measure.

 

“Yep,” Cindy said. “So do me the biggest favor ever, and let the man get his neurotic fingers all over you already.”

 

Eames eyes trailed slowly back to the video, where the big guy was getting pushed down onto the bed by the slimmer one, who then crawled eagerly over his partner’s large frame.

 

“If only it were that easy,” Eames breathed. Cindy sighed in sympathy, tipping the rest of the amber liquid into their glasses.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to HarlanHardway for helping me out so much with this whole project!
> 
> Just a heads-up that Eames impersonates a woman during a trial run in the dreamscape, but it is brief and nothing sexual occurs. Okay, well, Dom is a bit creepy about it, haha, but no touching.

 

The next morning began with regret and a splitting headache, followed by a scalding shower and three minutes of Eames brushing his teeth and glaring at his bleary-eyed reflection in the bathroom mirror.

 

When he finally stumbled into the kitchen, Arthur was sitting at the small table, cradling a mug of coffee, laptop open in front of him, with a huge, goofy grin on his face. Pleasantly shocked, Eames rounded the counter to see what was causing the expression. Phillipa and James were jostling around on the screen, each trying to get impossibly closer, peering back at Arthur with beaming faces, their voices high and shrill through the laptop speakers.

 

“...and Mrs. Green didn’t even _notice_ that Emma was still on the playground,” Phillipa was saying, clearly scandalized. “And she stayed out there for an hour on the swings, and-”

 

 **“Fire truck,”** James interrupted, solemnly and at full volume. Arthur nodded, schooling his features into his _important information is being acquired_ expression. James’ other hand shot up, barely missing his sister’s head. **“Book,”** he proclaimed, showing off an antique hardcover that seemed to be some sort of medical dictionary. Arthur nodded sagely.

 

“-when Mrs. Green _finally_ noticed she was out there, she sent me to go get her. So I had to put my sweater back on, but one of the sleeves was inside-out, so I-”

 

**“Vroom!”**

 

“-got stuck, and Sammy had to help. But then Alice started singing ‘Phillipa and Sammy, sitting in a tree,’ so I knocked her popsicle stick house off her desk and-”

 

 **“Skel-tons,”** James insisted, shaking the book. It must have had illustrations.

 

“Kids!” Dom called from somewhere in the background, cupboards banging. “Juice or milk?”

 

**“Joos!”**

 

“Milk please!”

 

Arthur glanced over his shoulder at Eames, a fond smile still on his face. Eames smiled back. Dom wandered into frame, setting down the kids’ drinks and waving blearily to Arthur. Eames made sure to stay out of the camera’s view as he fixed himself a cup of coffee.

 

Cobb wandered off again, and the kids drank their beverages and ate peanut butter toast and fruit while chattering at Arthur. He talked to them for a full twenty minutes. Eames kept track on the stove clock. Arthur never once lost his patience or looked bored. He talked about first-grade art projects with Phillipa, and listened, rapt, while James stuttered and lisped through a very repetitive story about a puppy.

 

His eyes had lost the dull, flat look that had been worrying Eames for the past several days. Arthur smiled brighter than Eames had seen in months. Without his hair gelled back and wearing a stretched-out T-shirt, Arthur looked much younger, like a grad student just rolled out of bed. Eames cleared his throat and pretended he was reading something on his phone.

 

By the time Dom came back to herd the kids away from the computer, Arthur’s shoulders, for once, looked relaxed, and a smile still played at the edge of his mouth as he finished his coffee.

 

* * *

 

“I need you to start working on another impersonation.”

 

Arthur didn’t look like he was kidding. But there was no way he could be serious. Then his jaw tightened and he readjusted his stance so that his weight was more evenly distributed on his feet, and Eames knew he wasn’t joking.

 

“Arthur,” he said, putting a bit of purr into his voice, “we don’t have time. The job is scheduled for tomorrow, and if I have to do another forge, it would take me at least two days to be convincing. Unless you just need something generic-”

 

“I need you to impersonate his ex-wife.”

 

“Okay, yeah, no, luv. Spouses, even _ex-_ spouses are very hard to do. It’s not just about what they are really like, but how the target perceives them and-”

 

Arthur waved his explanation away impatiently. “I know, that’s why I’m pushing the timeline back. Will three days be enough?”

 

“Well, I mean-”

 

“How about four days?” There was something desperate in Arthur’s eyes that had Eames nodding.

 

“Sure, luv. Four days is good.” He searched Arthur’s face. Even though his shoulders had slumped in relief, that unreadable expression in his eyes still remained, raw and panicked.

 

“Okay,” Arthur, said, blowing out the breath he’d been holding. “Four days.” He looked at Eames for a moment, then he turned and walked back into his small bedroom, grabbing his laptop to show Eames the footage of the target’s ex-wife.

 

* * *

 

Eames was woken up by the sound of Arthur and Dom whisper-arguing in the kitchen. He could tell from the tone of his voice that Cobb had the crazy eyes going, and from Arthur’s non-replies that he was stone-faced and unmoving. Not good.

 

He rolled off the couch where he had been camped out for the duration of the job. Arthur had one bedroom, and Cindy had the other, which meant the couch for him. Arthur had offered to rotate, but Eames had played the gentleman card and insisted that Arthur take the bed, as he needed to get as good of a night’s sleep as possible seeing as he slept less.

 

The real reason he’d taken the couch was so he could watch Arthur stumble out of the bedroom in the morning, hair wild and boxers hanging off his hips, walking half-asleep to the bathroom with his arms full of his button-down shirt and flat-front trousers. That, and the glasses. The adorably nerdy, thick-framed glasses that Arthur wore before he put in his contacts for the day.

 

Arthur wasn’t currently wearing his hipster glasses. His hair was still plastered back from his long day of being in professional mode; his only visible concession to stress being the undone top button of his shirt. He was leaning against the counter top, pretending, and failing, to look collected. Dom was nearly in his face, ranting at him.

 

“We were supposed to do this job by  _today,_ Arthur,” Dom hissed. “I made promises. How am I going to explain this?”

 

Eames remembered when he thought that Cobb’s desperation came from wanting to get back to his children. He’d never entertained the idea that it would get worse once he had them again, always fearful they were going to be taken away. It had made him even harder to work with now that they were back in his home country. Eames understood… but Cobb was stressing Arthur out, and Arthur didn’t need any additional stress.

 

“Hello Dom,” Eames greeted with a forced smile. “Didn’t think we’d be seeing you for a few more days.”

 

Cobb turned towards him, visibly attempting to calm down. He raked back his hair with one hand, his eyes darting almost guiltily at Eames.

 

“I informed him yesterday that we needed a few more days,” Arthur said, deadpan.

 

Dom shook his head, exasperated. “I had everything arranged to be here today,” he said, starting to pace. “So I just arranged to have the kids watched a few more days, but… I _really_ don’t like being away from them for this long.”

 

“That’s what I keep saying,” Arthur reasoned. “Head back home for the next two days. Come back when we do the actual job.”

 

“I’m here now,” Dom grumbled. “I’ll help keep the schedule on track. I just want this job over with. The next one I have lined up starts next week and I need to make sure the team is set up in time because it’s all the way out in Maine.” Arthur’s face paled and Eames shifted nervously, stopping as soon as Dom looked at him. “We could really use your help on that one, if you’ll reconsider, Eames.”

 

Eames’ eyes flicked to Arthur. His body was one, long, taught line, the strain so obvious that Eames didn’t know how he wasn’t physically shaking from the stress. _The Plan_ seemed more important than ever now.

 

The silence stretched on until Cobb blew out a tired breath, deflating against the counter, letting Eames off the hook. “Well, I don’t have a hotel room for the night, so it looks like you guys are stuck with me. I can take the couch.”

 

Eames’ whole body woke up at that announcement. He looked at Arthur, who somehow went even more rigid, then back to Cobb. “Naw, no worries, mate,” Eames hurried to explain, slapping Dom’s shoulder for good measure. “I have the couch. You can bunk with Arthur. I don’t think Cindy would have you, even if she hadn’t crashed hours ago like an old lady.”

 

Cobb chuckled at that, his face losing some of it’s worry, crinkles blooming at the corners of his eyes. “Yeah, I don’t think she’d welcome me with open arms. Especially if she blames me for sticking her with you two.”

 

Cobb and Eames both laughed good-naturedly, slipping back into the easy comradery they usually had on the job. Arthur continued to stare at them, all the blood drained from his face.

 

“Hey, thanks for trying to get me into a proper bed, but I insist on taking the couch," Cobb said, sobering. "I’d feel a lot more comfortable being by the door. Not that anyone would try and force their way in, but, eh,” he shrugged, “old habits die hard. Plus, I’ll be on my computer late, and honestly? The two of you look like you could use some uninterrupted rest.”

 

Eames nodded, not wanting to betray the hornet's nest that was his thoughts and emotions at being forced into a bed with Arthur. Meanwhile, Arthur looked like he’d turned to stone, staring at Cobb like the man had lost his mind. Dom, oblivious as only he could be when he put his mind to it, turned away from them to rifle through his case, pulling out a battered laptop and a spiral-bound notebook.

 

Eames touched Arthur’s shoulder lightly, making the man jump. “Sorry, luv,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Let’s get settled, shall we? I’m exhausted.”

 

* * *

 

Arthur used some sort of weird, natural toothpaste that smelled faintly of licorice. Eames had never known that before and never would have guessed that he would find the smell on Arthur’s breath to be incredibly erotic. If he ever got himself a proper therapist, he would need to talk about his inappropriate, toothpaste-based fantasies. Because now he had several.

 

“Which side, darling?”

 

Arthur started at him, half in horror, half in annoyance. “Don’t call me that.”

 

“As you say, angel.”

 

_“Eames.”_

 

“Arthur?”

 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “The right side.”

 

Eames nodded and pulled back the covers on the left. The bed had been made, but the sheets were ones that Arthur had already been sleeping on. It sent a small, inappropriate thrill through him. Would Arthur notice if he inhaled deeply into his pillow?

 

“Good night, Eames,” Arthur said, slipping in next to him and turning off his bedside light.

 

“Good night, Arthur.”

 

* * *

 

 _“Damn.”_ Cobb was staring at him with too much interest. Eames, shimmied his skirt up about an inch, showing off long legs balanced in high heels. “Why did he divorce her? She’s _hot.”_

 

Arthur rolled his eyes. They were in his dream, his headspace being much more stable than Dom’s. They would be in the client's dream for the actual job, though it was simple enough of a layout. One level down. Nothing fancy.

 

Eames tossed his strawberry-blond hair over his bare shoulder, the loose curls hanging heavy down his back. He enjoyed forging women. He didn’t get to do it as often as he impersonated stodgy old men, so it was a nice change of pace.

 

“I figured you’d like this one,” he smirked at Cobb, his voice pitched just like the woman he was pretending to be, copying her Californian accent. Dom’s eyes roved over his false body again. Eames wondered vaguely how long it had been since the poor man had gotten laid.

 

Arthur was staring daggers. Cobb nudged him in the ribs. “What to you think, huh?” he asked Arthur, nodding over to Eames’ forge.

 

“Not really my type,” Arthur sniffed, pretending to be interested in something else, though it was only the three of them in the dream version of the target’s country residence and he already knew ever centimeter.

 

Dom ignored him. “Gorgeous. Eames, do a walk for us?”

 

Eames tried to hide his snort of amusement, though it came out much cuter and more feminine in his current form than it would have in reality. He obliged, clicking over the parquet floor in his dainty shoes, letting his hips swing. It always felt so different to walk as a woman, especially in heels. It had taken him quite a while to manage it realistically.

 

Eames ended the show with a cheeky little walk, heading over to Dom and giving him bedroom eyes the whole way. “Jesus,” Cobb muttered under his breath. “Is she single in real life?”

 

“No,” Arthur growled. “Why do you think they’re divorced?”

 

“Hmm, shame,” Cobb said, shrugging. Eames wondered if Cobb would ever get married again. His money was on no, not after Mal.

 

Eames let the forge drop, his own bulky frame replacing that of the petite woman. Cobb was still smiling at him, though it was amused now. Eames turned to gauge Arthur’s reaction, only to be met with the barrel of a gun. He saw Arthur’s dark eyes for only a moment before he pulled the trigger.

 

Eames nearly jumped out of the chair when he came to, rising to his feet before the room even came into focus. Arthur was standing as well, fussing with the PASIV, while Cobb lay on the couch, blinking up at the ceiling.

 

“Why’d you do that?” Eames asked, his voice raspy.

 

Arthur wouldn’t look at him. He just kept angrily packing away the tubing. “It’s not good enough. We need to scrap it. We’ll stick with the original plan and use only the forge of the brother.”

 

“My impersonation was perfect,” Eames snapped, his patience wearing thin.

 

“Agree to disagree,” Arthur replied, slamming the PASIV case closed.

 

“What’s this really about?” Eames demanded, putting his hand down on the case and holding it to the coffee table so that Arthur couldn’t take off to his room with it to sulk over… whatever this was.

 

Arthur glared, his teeth clenched together and his jaw muscle jumping.

 

“If we aren’t going to use the forge of the ex-wife, then this was a huge waste of time,” Cobb complained from the couch.

 

Arthur managed to pull out the case from under Eames hand, who had stopped putting pressure on it, all the fight draining out of him and leaving room only for exhaustion. The door to the bedroom slammed a moment later.

 

* * *

 

The atmosphere was still tense when Eames slipped into bed that night with Arthur, who was already turned on his side, likely staring at the wall with how tense his back and shoulders were. Eames didn’t want that. He could never stand it when Arthur was _actually_ mad at him. He needed to fix this, because he really couldn’t afford Arthur to hate him right now. Not when _The Plan_ hung in the balance.

 

“I’m sorry,” Eames tried, not really knowing what he was apologizing for, but just needing Arthur to talk to him.

 

“For what?” came Arthur’s response. He didn’t sound mad. Just tired.

 

“Uh, for whatever I did to get the silent treatment for the evening?” Eames said, hoping he was doing lighthearted convincingly. Like it wasn’t his whole job to make lies convincing.

 

Arthur sighed. “Go to sleep, Eames.”

 

“Have you…” Eames stopped. This really wasn’t the best time, but-

 

“Have I what?”

 

“Have you ever thought of doing a job outside of the US again?”

 

“Cobb has one lined up for Quebec-”

 

“Yeah,” Eames interrupted, nerves getting to him, “but I meant like, a job outside the Americas.”

 

“Oh. Well, I don’t think Cobb wants to be so far away from the kids, so…”

 

 _Fuck Cobb,_ Eames wants to say. “I wasn’t asking about Dom,” Eames said, his voice losing its teasing note. “What do you want to do after this, Arthur? Have you ever considered taking on some of the fun jobs over in Europe? There has been an uptick in art theft, and there are a few famous pieces that have gone missing. I’ve been in touch with the guy that’s trying to catch the thieves, but it will take a strong, two-person team, and I thought-”

 

“Thanks for thinking of me,” Arthur said quickly. Woodenly. “But I already agreed to help Dom with the work he’s got coming up.”

 

“Corporate,” Eames sneered. “You could be doing so much more, Arthur.”

 

Arthur’s shoulders hitched up, his breathing going harsh. “I’m not going to just abandon Cobb.”

 

“I didn’t say that. But at some point you’ll want a break from this, from these types of jobs. Do something more creative and-”

 

“I can’t leave Cobb on his own,” Arthur hissed, his back still to Eames, his spine so rigid it made Eames’ back ache in sympathy. “He doesn’t have anyone else. And if something happened to him, James and Phillipa would need someone.”

 

“You could keep in contact with all of them even from overseas-”

 

“I’m their godfather, Eames.” Eames jaw snapped shut. “If Cobb gets sick, or dies, or gets arrested, I get the kids. I can’t be halfway across the world if something happens.” He finally turned and looked over his shoulder, his eyes begging Eames to understand. “For my own peace of mind, I have to stay close,” he said, his eyes so earnest it made Eames’ chest constrict.

 

“Okay,” Eames croaked after a beat, his voice gone hoarse again. Arthur looked at him a moment longer, before lying back down and pulling the covers in tighter.

 

“Thanks for understanding,” Arthur whispered into the darkness after Eames switched off the light. Eames reached out through the space between their bodies, briefly grasping Arthur’s shoulder and giving it a little shake.

 

“Of course, darling,” he murmured.

 

 _The Plan_ needed a major rewrite.

 

 


End file.
